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Poem by David Macbeth Moir To a Dying Infant Sleep, little baby! sleep! Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead. Yes, with the quiet dead, Baby! thy rest shall be — Oh! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light, Would fain lie down with thee! Flee, little tender nursling! Flee to thy grassy nest.— There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace! peace! the little bosom Labours with shortening breath; Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh — Those are the damps of death. I've seen thee in thy beauty, A thing all health and glee; But never then, wert thou So beautiful, as now, Baby! thou seem'st to me. Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over Like harebells wet with dew— Already veil'd and hid By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open, The soft lip quivering, As if, like summer air, Ruffling the rose leaves, there Thy soul were fluttering. Mount up, immortal essence! Young spirit! hence — depart! And is this death? dread thing! If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art! God took thee in His mercy. A lamb untask'd — untried — He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory — And thou art sanctified. I look around, and see The evil ways of men, And oh, beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. The little arms that clasp'd me. The innocent lips that press'd, Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore I lull'd thee on my breast? Now, like a dewdrop shrined Within a crystal stone, Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! Safe with the source of love— The everlasting One! And when the hour arrives, From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me. David Macbeth Moir David Macbeth Moir's other poems:
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